


Things That Happened

by Parsnip



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon Consistent Violence, Dancing, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Multiple Sole Survivors, Non-Linear Narrative, making poor choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23173864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parsnip/pseuds/Parsnip
Summary: In tattered fragments, the story of Charlotte Jack Donnelly and her across-the-street neighbor Paige Peretti, somehow survivors.(A collection of short pieces and prompts that mostly hang together.)
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Charlie and her Friends

"This is weird," Charlotte murmured as they crept closer to the building. She raised her sniper rifle and picked off a sleeping ghoul, then shook her head.

"What, killing ghouls?" Hancock asked. "Don't let me put you off."

"No, no," Charlotte said. She peered through her scope again, then lowered it. "I went to this school."

"Oh! Shit, sorry," Hancock said. He looked around. "Must be terrible seeing it this way."

"It isn't as bad as it could be," she said. "I was only here for elementary, and that was years before the bombs fell."

She slipped open the door and slid inside. Hancock opened it slightly wider and followed.

Her face immediately screwed up into an expression of disgust. She put her hand over her mouth and nose, then winced as she moved her hand away and took up the sniper rifle again. She picked off a pair of sleeping ghouls, then looked over at Hancock.

"This place smells _foul_ ," she said.

"I was going to ask if it always smelled like this, but I'm guessing no," he said. He grinned at her, and she wrinkled her nose.

"This is just wrong." She squinted at the ghouls. "Do they look pink to you?" she asked.

Hancock turned his attention to the dessicated ferals, and frowned. "Yes," he said. "They do. What the hell?"

Two hours later they were back outside, and Charlotte sat on the curb patting herself down. She finally came up with a flask of what he knew, despite all appearances, was just purified water.

"Gross," she declared. "Everything about that was gross."

"Hey, I resemble some of those bastards," Hancock said.

"Not the ferals, the… ugh." She took a drink. "Them experimenting on the kids like that. That _food paste_. I wish I didn't know half the things I keep finding out. My world was awful, Hancock."

"No more so than mine," he said.

"Yours is awful because of mine," Charlotte said. "Supermutants? That was us. Radiation? Us. Vault-Tec? Us."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't _you_ ," he said.

"It wasn't _not_ me, either." She sighed. "I know I couldn't have known, but it feels like… shouldn't I have been able to do something?"

Hancock sat down next to her and tapped a cigarette out from his pack.

"I know what you're going to say," Charlotte said.

"Yeah?"

"That it's not my fault."

"It's not, but that ain't the point." Hancock nudged her. "This shit you're doing now? Cleaning places out, fixing settlements, solving problems? That means somethin'. It's more than most people do, and you ain't doin' it to take advantage."

"Is it enough?" She looked at him seriously.

"Yeah, Lottie." Hancock lit his cigarette and took a long, slow drag. "Yeah, it is."

* * *

Hancock nudged one of the raiders with his boot. "Don't know why they always gotta fight," he said. "Can't they tell they're outmatched before they even start? I mean, look at us. We're either crazy or too strong to care about armor."

He looked over toward Charlotte, then frowned.

She was staring at the building behind them with a stunned expression. After a moment, she walked up and pressed her hand to the bricks by the boarded up door. Her thumb slid across them, as if the brick face could feel it.

"Lottie?"

She turned.

"I- sorry, Hancock. What did you say?" she asked.

"I was just bein' observational. What's up? You know this place?" He waved a hand toward the building.

Sorrowful nostalgia settled over her expression. "Yes," she said. "I spent a lot of time here when I was little."

Hancock walked over and slung his arm over her shoulders. "Hate to break it to you darlin', but you're still little."

"Younger, then," she said. She leaned slightly into his side, and he tightened his arm around her.

"Do you suppose anything's left inside?" she asked.

"Depends on who boarded it up and when," Hancock said. "I think one of the raiders had a tire iron. What's a little breaking and entering between friends?"

Charlotte smiled up at him. "Can't hurt to try," she said.

When the boards were in pieces on the sidewalk, Charlotte turned on her Pip-Boy light and picked her way inside.

"Whoa," Hancock said, following her in and looking around. "Pretty empty in here, Lottie. Hell of a mirror, though.

"I was here every day," she said. "Sometimes for hours. I did ballet when I was very little, then changed over to taking tap when I was a little older. Then I started ballroom."

She stood up and walked toward the mirror.

"Bet you were real cute," Hancock said.

"Not as much as you'd think. Dancing is brutal," Charlotte said. "Blisters and bruises and practicing until you cried. I was mostly a mess."

"I doubt that, kiddo."

She turned and looked at him, shaking her head, but smiling. "Well, it wasn't _so_ bad," she said. "We used to have pictures of me from competitions, with my hair all curled and my big starched dresses. Mom used to mail copies to all the grandparents even if I lost. _When_ I lost. I wasn't very good."

"Now, that sounds like another lie."

"I was good, don't get me wrong," Charlotte said, "but I wasn't _competition_ good. I wasn't awards good." Her usual perfect posture somehow became even more formal, and she placed her feet precisely on a clear bit of floor. "I liked dancing very much, but I was always second or third at best. I was happy to retire when I went to college."

"So this was just a… practice room?" Hancock asked, looking around.

"Mostly," Charlotte said. She moved her feet through some measured steps. "There's a changing room at the back, though. I wonder… if anything is still there." She turned and looked back toward the partition wall at the other end of the room.

"Lemme check for pests," Hancock said. "You just take a minute to reminisce."

Charlotte nodded and turned away, looking at the cracked and hazy mirror. She could see herself, in her tattered skirt and sneakers, her hair pulled up into a ponytail that was far from tidy. She could almost hear the chiding of her teacher. _Stand up straight. Feet in position. Chin up._

She hummed to herself and swept into motion, hands up as if dancing with a partner. One, two, three, turn, two, three, back, two, three, and twirl-

Tears choked her throat, and she lowered her hands back down, coming to rest again. She closed her eyes, slowly breathing in. When she felt herself stop shaking, she turned and walked back to join Hancock in the dressing rooms.

She found him sitting on a stool, idly twisting back and forth. "Hey Lottie," he said. "Did some cleaning. Not much back here, but looks like the lockers are intact."

"Good thing Paige gave me a refresher course on lockpicking," Charlotte said. She walked over and tugged a bobby pin from her hair. "What'd you find back here?" she asked, setting to work on the first lock.

"Ah… few radroaches," Hancock said. "Nothing worth worrying about."

She looked over at him, and he didn't meet her eyes.

"Okay," she said.

As he watched her open each locker, jaw tight with banked sorrow, Hancock thought about the tiny skeletons he'd found. The ones he had hidden under a half-collapsed wall to rest with a skeleton wearing a wrap dress and tattered shoes. Normally he would just ignore the bodies, but he knew… she couldn't, not yet. Not here. Not now.

Poor kid swung wildly between capability and collapse, and sometimes he wondered where she was gonna land.

Charlotte pulled a shoe box from one of the lockers and opened it. She pulled out a single gold shoe, impossibly perfect despite the years.

"Don't suppose it's your size," Hancock said.

"A half size bigger," she said. She sat down on a bench and took off her sneaker and sock, then slid her foot into the gold heel and buckled the strap over her ankle.

"Looks right to me," Hancock said.

"Huh." She stood up, balancing on one foot. "I guess… my feet must be a little different now."

"You should keep 'em."

"What use do I have now for dancing shoes?" She shook her head. "Nobody dances anymore."

"Hey, the Third Rail has dancing," Hancock said. "Don't cut yourself off from fun, Lottie." He stood up and walked over, standing next to her. "You're as tall as me now," he said.

"I should keep them just for that," she said.

"Sure, whatever gets the job done," Hancock said. "Come on, shove 'em in your bag and let's grab all 500 of these bobby pins. This place is full of 'em."

* * *

"I miss having hair sometimes," Hancock said.

Charlotte opened her eyes and looked up at him. "What was yours like?" she asked, her voice warm with bourbon and exhaustion.

"Eh, nothing special," he said. He ran his fingers through her hair, fanned out across his lap. "Had a good hairline, though."

She smiled.

He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger.

"I had freckles, too," he said.

"Really?" she asked. She reached up and slid her finger lazily across his cheek.

"Sure," he said. "All over." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Charlotte giggled.

"You're a fun drunk, Lottie," Hancock said.

She sighed contentedly.

"I like you," she said.

"Also an affectionate one," he said.

"I still like you when I'm sober," she said. Her eyes closed.

"Good thing," Hancock said. "'cause I have the best hangover cure in the Commonwealth, and you're gonna want it."

"It's not your cock, is it?"

Hancock choked, then laughed. "It isn't," he said. "But maybe I should try that line on the next lady."

"Let me know if it works," Charlotte said. A self-satisfied grin had her opening her eyes again.

"It won't," he said.

Charlotte giggled. "Then why try it?"

"It'll be funny," he said. "And I'll get to remember you saying 'cock'."

"I say 'cock' all the time," Charlotte said. She rolled her eyes up to the splintery ceiling. " _Cock_ ," she said, carefully enunciating the word.

Hancock chuckled and dropped his head back to look at the ceiling.

"Cock is a good word," she said. "It's like 'fuck'. Fuck is a good word. It's the percussive 'ck'. Fu _ck_. Co _ck_."

Hancock slid his fingers through her hair again, and she sighed.

"What color was your hair?" she asked.

"Red," he said. "I got so much shit about it when I was a kid."

"Like Paige?" she asked.

"Kinda," he said. "She's darker than I was."

"I bet you were adorable," Charlotte said.

"Of course," he said. "Cutest kid in Diamond City."

"I believe it," she said.

She yawned.

"I'm gonna fall asleep on your couch," she warned.

"Go for it," he said. "I usually do."

"You're a good egg, Hancock."

"You makin' a bald joke?" he asked, tugging a lock of her hair.

She giggled, then reached over and poked him in the ribs.

"Nuh uh," she said.

Her eyes closed, and she smiled dozily.

"Thanks for getting me drunk, Hancock."

"Any time, sister."

* * *

"You know what you need?" Hancock asked, letting the Jet inhaler drop from his fingers.

Charlotte looked up from her magazine. "Probably not," she said.

"You need to hire MacCready."

Charlotte had been expecting him to suggest Mentats and a weapons upgrade. Most of Hancock's suggestions involved chems, at the very least.

She closed the magazine and set it on the coffee table. "Who?" she asked.

"Robert Joseph MacCready," Hancock said. He leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face as the Jet kicked in. "Call him MacCready. He works out of the Third Rail. Gave him permission myself."

He kicked his feet up onto the table, careful to avoid Charlotte's magazine. "He's a sniper, a good one. He takes a lot of pissant work, but I bet he'd be all over a job with some meat on it."

"Provided I have the caps to pay for it," Charlotte guessed.

"You ain't kidding, sister. Never seen a man so motivated by caps still be alive after two weeks," Hancock said. "But you're a hoarder. I bet you can afford him for long enough to get through this dumbass quest Preston has you on."

Charlotte dropped her head back against the decaying foam couch cushion.

"If the Minutemen have always needed this much hand-holding, I'm not surprised they went under," Charlotte grumbled.

Hancock chuckled. "Chin up," he said. "You're single-handedly providing hope to the Commonwealth."

"Not so single-handed," she said. She reached over with one foot and nudged his boot with her sneaker.

"I _am_ pretty instrumental in your success," Hancock said, grinning. "So trust me, sister. Hire the weaselly little bastard downstairs to watch your back while I sort things out here. It'll be good for both of you."

She shoved herself off the couch, then brushed the foam dust off her clothes. "Okay. I trust you, Hancock," she said. "If you say I need him, then I guess I need him."

"Always a good decision," he said. "And tell him I said he owes me one."

* * *

"Hey, you!"

Charlotte froze.

"I don't know who you are, but we got three minutes before they realize muscles-for-brains ain't coming back. Get this door open."

_That voice. No, it couldn't be - it wasn't possible._

She couldn't see inside the grimy window, damn it. She rushed to the console at the wall and punched in the codes. _Hurry up, hurry up._

The door opened with a pop and a hiss. Suddenly, Charlotte was nervous. She wiped her hands on her green skirt and walked inside.

Smoke curled up through the fingers of the man in the room - his cigarette was burning low, visible through the metal frame that made up his hand. His eyes glowed brilliant yellow in the dimly lit room, all the more striking in the deeper shadow under the brim of his hat.

"Kinda a reversal of the standard damsel-in-distress routine," he said.

The voice was so familiar that she was stunned into silence. There was a mechanical whir to it, but…

"Detective Valentine," she said.

"Yeah, that's me. Call me Nick," he said. "How'd you find me down here, anyway?"

"Dumb luck," she said. Her voice wobbled. "How are you here? What happened to you?"

"Why do I feel like you aren't asking about my current predicament?" Nick asked.

"Do you- did you know a man named Eddie Iversson?" Charlotte asked.

Nick blinked and leaned back. "Sure, I knew Eddie. Detective Iversson, worked with me years ago, before the war. How do you know that name?"

"He's my father."

* * *

So here's the thing, right?

He was wrong. And he _hates_ being wrong. Being wrong means he wasn't careful. Means people could die. Means he fucked up, and Deacon tries never to fuck up, not anymore, not in ways that matter.

He'd done his research, been planning this for years. He'd sat in that hide for weeks, months, waiting for someone to crawl out of 111. When he'd seen that woman stumble off the platform, he knew exactly who he was seeing - Charlotte Jack Donnelly, age 23, five foot one, black hair, green eyes. Married, with a son that Deacon was 80 percent certain had been kidnapped by the Institute sixty years ago.

A time traveller. His best way in, if her release meant anything. It was all falling into place. He'd run back to HQ to drop his reports, grab a bag, and head out to go undercover.

He'd tracked reports of her all across the Commonwealth, staked out every major settlement, and collected stories. He'd seen her in Goodneighbor, in Bunker Hill, in Diamond City. Then, finally, she'd walked the Freedom Trail right to their door.

She stood there, still wearing that bright blue and yellow Vault suit, a sniper rifle strapped to her back. Between her and the flood lights was some other woman - a scavver, by the looks of her. Head half shaved, long scar down her face, carrying an angry looking machete… add that to her filthy road leathers, badly matched armor, and near snarling defensiveness, and you got a typical Wastelander.

"All right," Des said. "Who are you?"

_A very good question_ , Deacon noted. A hired gun, maybe, like that former Gunner in the back room at the Third Rail?

"This is the Railroad, right?" Charlotte asked. "I was told to find you."

"Told by who?" Des asked. "And you still haven't answered my question."

Charlotte frowned slightly. "Until I'm sure it's safe, I'd rather not give away my contact."

"We'll find out eventually," Des said with a scowl.

_That's my cue_ , Deacon thought. He walked out, and he could feel the scavver's eyes tracking him. _At least the Vault girl was hiring an attentive guard_ , he noted.

"Having a party, huh? Where's my invitation?" he asked.

"Deacon. Who are these people?" Des asked.

"Newsflash, boss, the little one's kiiiinda a big deal," he said. "General of the Minutemen? Killed Kellogg?"

"You're half right," the scavver said.

"I killed Kellogg," Charlotte said. "But she's the General."

Charlotte nodded toward the scavver.

Deacon felt a cold chill run down his spine.

_No._ The _Vault girl_ was the General. She'd saved Garvey and a handful of settlers, brought them to Sanctuary. He'd had his ear to the ground on this for months, and there'd been dozens of stories of the woman from 111 taking out nests of raiders, ferals, and Supermutants, building defenses, repairing buildings. Hell, one settler had talked his ear off for an hour, going on about the settlement she'd established in the middle of downtown.

111 was the General. Every wet behind the ears Minuteman he'd met had said as much.

Hell, he'd seen her walk into Diamond City with Nick Valentine. He'd _seen her walk out of the Vault._ What was this game they were playing?

Whatever it was, it worked. Des let them in, and Deacon was left to change his plans on the fly. He had no intel, no data. All he had was his plan to test Charlotte on the prototype op, and now he had to expand it for all three of them. Would the addition of one more tourist on the op mean Des wouldn't go for promoting either of them?

He'd just have to wing it.

_Fuck_.

* * *

"You," Hancock declared, "need to have a good time."

Charlotte looked up from her work. "Huh?"

"Look at you," he said, waving a hand at the armor table. "What are you doing right now?"

"Glueing a split in the lamination on my shoulder piece," Charlotte said. "I have to pinch it together until the glue takes."

"See, and you could be going to the Third Rail with me," Hancock said.

"I could," she conceded, "but by the time we got there, some emergency would show up. Another settlement having emotions about ferals."

"We just won't let Preston catch us," Hancock said. "Come on, picture it. You. Me. MacCready. Bit of drink, bit of chatter, bit of music…"

Charlotte squinted at Hancock. "When did MacCready get involved?" she asked.

"When I remembered that he owes me a drink," Hancock said. "It'll save me money if we bring him."

Charlotte chuckled. "I don't for a minute think he took any bet you offered."

"You're not wrong," Hancock said. "MacCready never bets. He's too tight. Nah, I did him a favor a while back. He's paying me off in the swill Whitechapel Charlie peddles."

"He doesn't pinch pennies all the time," Charlotte said. "He gave me back the money I paid him, and all I did was knock off a couple Gunners."

"That's playing it narrow. You did him a favor, and he's good for it. I like the guy. Which," Hancock said, "means I'm very confident we'll have a good night. Come on. Didn't we loot those fancy shoes the other day? This would be a good excuse to try 'em out."

"Well…" she said.

Hancock swept over and plucked the shoulder armor from her hands. The join held.

"Good work. All set. Grab your rifle, sister. The Third Rail awaits," Hancock said.

Charlotte shook her head, but grabbed her sniper rifle and a .44.

"You win," she said. "Let's go."

Hancock grinned. "That's more like it. Let's find that cranky sniper and make for Goodneighbor."

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts," Nick said.

Charlotte didn't look up from her work, but she answered immediately.

"Gracile," she said.

Nick waited. He turned away from his desk.

Charlotte kept knitting.

"Gracile?" he finally asked.

"Uh huh," she said. She held up her project, turned it, then pulled at a bit of the fabric. Whatever she'd been testing seemed to suit her, because she went back to work.

"Care to elaborate?" Nick asked.

"You ever have just a word stuck in your head?" Charlotte asked. "It's just that. Just the word. Gracile."

Nick nodded, though she wasn't looking. "What put that word in your head?" he asked.

"I was noticing something, and trying to find the word I wanted for it," she said. "Gracile came into my head, but I'm not one hundred percent sure it's the word I want, and I can't look it up. I haven't found an intact dictionary."

"Means slender," Nick said. "It implies graceful. Elegant, maybe."

Charlotte set down her knitting and looked distant a moment.

She nodded.

"That was the word I wanted, then," she said. "Thank you."

Nick leaned back in his office chair. He watched her pick her knitting back up and count stitches.

She hadn't mentioned what she'd noticed. He'd lay odds she was hoping he wouldn't ask.

"Where'd you find yarn?" he asked instead.

"My brother's apartment," she said. "My sister-in-law used to knit. She taught me so I could keep my hands busy when I was on bed rest."

Charlotte held the project up.

"Socks?" Nick asked.

"Uh huh," Charlotte said. "I'm on the second one."

"Bit big for your feet there, doll," Nick said.

"Yeah, but they'll fit MacCready," she said. She set the project back in her lap and started knitting again. "He's always cold," she said.

"He doesn't have enough on his bones to keep them warm," Nick said. "That's the problem with growing up in a cave, I suppose. Not a lot of proper nutrition."

"He still managed to get taller than I did," Charlotte said.

"No insult intended, kid, but pretty much everyone managed that."

Charlotte made a face and turned her work.

"Gracile," Nick said. He rolled the word around in his head. "It's a good word," he said.

"Thanks," Charlotte said.

* * *

Her hands were balled into fists, her arms rigid at her sides as she stared up at Paladin Danse. Well - _former_ Paladin, MacCready noted. The Brotherhood couldn't kick him out fast enough, and Charlie Jack had taken him in, because of _course_ she had. Now they just had a sullen, judgmental meathead around the place, grumbling and refusing to speak to anyone.

"I like you," Charlie said, "but-"

Danse turned and took a step away. He grabbed a heavy wooden crate, then carried it over and set it down in front of Charlie.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He held out his hand.

Charlie frowned, in confusion now, but eased her hands. She reached out and took Danse's hand - _too trusting by half_ , Mac grumbled in his head.

Danse helped her up onto the crate, then stood in front of her. Now, they were the same height.

"Go ahead, Paladin," he said.

She stood there on a crate a moment, looking at him.

"Why?" she asked.

"You hate when I look down at you," he said. He shrugged. "I've noticed."

She looked at him critically.

"C'mere," she said. She reached out both arms and made grabbing gestures with her hands, like a toddler.

Danse hesitated - _at least one of them has sense_ \- but then stepped closer.

Charlie grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shook them.

"Thank you. Now, I know you are mad about the Brotherhood situation," she said. "And maybe Paige could have done some things differently-"

"She blew up the Prydwen!"

"-but she did get almost everyone off the ship before she did, and-"

"Not Elder Maxson."

" _Good_." From behind them, Paige's voice cut through. " _Fuck_ that guy," she said.

Danse started to stand up taller, then looked at Charlie and remained still.

"He tried to fuckin' murder you," Paige said, crossing her arms as she came to a stop beside Charlie. "He was a zealot and an asshole and if he'd left when I told him to then he wouldn't be dead."

Charlie and Danse both turned to look at her. "Wait," Charlotte said. "You… warned him?"

"What, did you think I snuck onto the Prydwen, told every single man, woman, and child on board that it had been sabotaged and was gonna go down, and then just locked that shithead in his office to die?" Paige huffed. "He would have deserved it, but no, I told him. Everyone that went down with that worthless piece of shit balloon did it on purpose. So _you_ -" She wheeled to focus back on Danse. "-better stop acting like Charlotte murdered your favorite dog. She didn't know what was going to happen, she couldn't have stopped it, and you crying into your fucking hat about it is getting real fucking annoying."

Danse froze in place.

"I was not crying," he said.

"Oh, no, of course not," Paige said. "You were just walking around the playground, alone, sulking, and refusing to talk to anyone, or help out, or do jack fuck all but be sad about how you got discharged from some fake military cult over some shit that you had no control over that had no bearing on your ability to keep being a bootlicker."

" _Paige_." Charlotte looked stricken.

"Look, the Brotherhood was your territory," Paige said. "You were good with them." Her tone was softer when she talked to Charlotte. "And if I could have ignored them, I would have. But while you were saving the goddamn Commonwealth, they were moving to wipe out every last Railroad agent above ground. We didn't have time to talk about it. They had to be stopped, before we lost everyone."

She looked over at Danse. "And no matter how many feelings your pet bastard has about it, I did what I had to do, which is more than they would have done for him, or any of us."

She turned and walked back down the road, leaving them to watch after her.

"Should I… talk to her?" Danse asked.

"What would you say?" Charlotte asked.

"I suppose I would apologise," he said. "I did not know of the Brotherhood's plans, nor that she… attempted to save them."

"I know you two don't get along-"

Danse coughed. "An understatement," he said.

"-but she's not unreasonable." Charlotte straightened his coat collar again. "You could try."

Danse nodded. "I can try."

* * *


	2. Charlie and MacCready

"Hold it, little girl."

Charlotte froze.

"Good, you follow orders. Puts you one up on our friend here," the Gunner said. She nudged her .44 against the base of MacCready's skull. "Now turn and face me, nice and slow."

Charlotte did as the Gunner asked. She didn't give MacCready so much as a glance, and he couldn't even get mad about it. It'd been his freaking job to watch their six, and he'd slipped up. While he'd been showing off for his new boss, one of the damn Gunners had gotten the drop on him.

"He'll be dead before you can load that thing," the Gunner said, nodding toward the rifle Charlotte held at the ready. "Too bad, kid. You shouldn't have wasted your money on MacCready. No refunds on corpses. But hey, I'm reasonable. If you want to live, drop that gun and run the fuck away. Pretend you never saw this asshole, and we might not come after you later."

_Fuck._ He'd only been running with Charlotte for two weeks - no way she wouldn't take that deal. She'd be an idiot if she didn't. Sure, he was a crack shot, but she wasn't bad herself, and he'd been a snarky, obnoxious little asshole the whole time. Showing off, griping, whining…

Charlotte slowly set her rifle on the ground, then stood and held her hands up.

Sweat rolled down MacCready's neck. Yeah. She wasn't an idiot. _Shit._

"Good," the Gunner said. She smirked. "Now just turn around and leave. Your little friend here and I have some business with Winlock and Barnes."

Charlotte wiped her hands off on her jeans, then slowly stepped backward. The Gunner pressed the .44 flush to Mac's head and chuckled. "Good," she said. She looked down at Mac. "There goes your meal ticket," the Gunner said. She leaned down, whispering, "Too bad for you Winlock didn't say I had to bring you in alive."

MacCready watched Charlotte's body tense, preparing to run. His mind raced with options. Grab the .44 away somehow? Break for cover? Try-

Suddenly, Charlotte launched herself forward. She was on them in a flash, shoving off MacCready's shoulder and up at the Gunner. She was on the Gunnar before the woman could react. Hell, the Gunner had been so busy congratulating herself that she hadn't even looked up in time.

MacCready stumbled forward and scrambled out of the way, scuttling forward toward Charlotte's discarded rifle. _His was unloaded, but she should still have one in the chamber…_

The impact of Charlotte's body against the Gunner's knocked the .44 to the ground and spun it across the broken pavement. Charlotte hadn't checked herself at all - she'd just gone full weight against the larger woman. The Gunner barely managed to brace herself enough to stay vertical. She yanked away, then yelped in pain.

"Goddamn it! Get off me!"

MacCready grabbed Charlotte's rifle and turned to aim.

Charlotte had a fistful of the Gunner's hair, snatched close to the scalp. Because she was so much shorter than the mercenary, the Gunner couldn't get her head up enough for balance. She flailed, trying to dislodge Charlotte.

"I'll fucking kill you!" the Gunner yelled, trying to yank her head free.

Charlotte grabbed the other side of the woman's head, catching another fistful of hair and clinging tight. The Gunner reared up, lifting Charlotte nearly off her feet. "Let go, you bitch!" the Gunner roared.

Charlotte picked her feet up off the ground.

The Gunner toppled forward, unable to support the dead weight attached to her head. Charlotte landed on the ground, bracing her feet and bending her knees. She kept her hold on the Gunner's head as the Gunner fell.

Gravity and Charlotte's momentum slammed the Gunner's head down onto Charlotte's heavily armored knee. The two forces met with a sickening crunch, and Mac's stomach twisted at the sound. Bones had broken, and he hoped to hell they weren't Charlotte's.

The Gunner made a gargling noise and went immediately limp. Charlotte let go of the other woman and dropped back, skittering quickly toward the discarded .44. She snatched it up and aimed it at the Gunner, waiting.

The woman didn't move. After a moment, Charlotte fired a round from the .44 into the Gunner's head, then holstered the gun and scrambled to her feet.

"You okay?" she asked, turning to look at MacCready.

"Yeah," he said. He snatched his hat off his head, running a hand through his hair before putting his hat back on. "Freakin'… yeah, I'm fine. You okay?"

"My knee kinda hurts," she said. "I guess I need more padding on the inside of this armor."

Mac coughed a laugh, then shook his head.

"You're… thanks, boss," he said. "I owe you one."

"Eh," Charlotte said. "You're good for it."

* * *

MacCready had spent many days in the back room at the Third Rail, waiting for work to come in. Waiting for another appearance from Winlock and Barnes, more petty threats. But now, he hadn't been back in months. Now he was, as Charlotte said, "on contract". She paid him promptly every week, a flat hundred caps plus a share of any salvage recovered when he was on the run. She'd written it all down, as if paperwork still meant a damn thing.

Her handwriting was tidy and elegant, her signature long and flowing. _Charlotte Jack Donnelly._

He kept his copy of the contract folded in the pocket of his duster.

It was shit like that made him think he could maybe tell her. About the ghouls, and the medicine. About the Gunners. About Duncan.

* * *

His hands were big, bigger than she'd have expected for such fine wrists as he had. Strong arms, but wiry, not bulked out. His whole body was spare, as if built under wartime conditions. Which, she supposed, it had been. He wasn't terribly tall, but was certainly taller than she was. He was actually an inch taller than Hancock, and only a little wider than the ghoul across the shoulders.

Usually she could do this kind of observation utterly unnoticed - none of her other companions were snipers like she was, so they were always ahead of her. She'd had all the time she wanted to memorize. To consider. To try and figure them out.

But MacCready, he was back there with her in the shadows, and he saw _everything_. It was impossible to sneak glances - he always caught her before she could start, those sharp blue eyes tracking her easily in any rat hole they were clearing.

She'd taken to watching him while he slept. He looked utterly, painfully young then, curled up with his head resting on his arm and his knees drawn up toward his chest. Twenty two, she remembered. She was only two years older than he was, if you didn't count the cryo-years. Two years. It felt like nothing. It felt like forever. When she was twenty two, what had she been doing? She'd been in school then. Married.

Her friend Amalia had thrown her a party to celebrate, since Nate had been deployed at the time. She and Amalia and three other friends had gotten drunk on pink wine. There had been tiny cakes, music, and dancing.

She didn't want to think about her birthday coming again. Perhaps if she never told anyone about it, she wouldn't have to pretend to be excited. Wouldn't have to spend all day trying to forget.

"Hey boss."

Charlie blinked, shaking her head. "Hmm?" she asked, looking at MacCready again.

"You were a million miles away there," he said. "Something up?"

"No… no, sorry, just trying to decide which direction," she said.

"Sure." He nodded. "Whenever you're ready."

_Is there such a thing as being ready?_

"Let's go."

* * *

"You think there's anything useful in here?"

MacCready nudged the decaying box with the end of his rifle, wrinkling his nose as bits of cardboard crumbled to the floor.

Three rooms away, he heard Charlotte stop, then track him through the house to the back closet under the stairs. She stepped quietly up behind him, peering around his shoulder.

Her Pip-boy lit up, casting a green glow on the contents of the room. It glinted off something silver peeking from the new gap in the cardboard.

He leaned back to let her creep in around him, slipping around and into the room. She sidled up to the box and tore at the top, peeling it open slowly.

"Oh," she breathed.

Thin shards of broken glass covered the top layer of the contents, each piece curved and sharp. Charlotte paused, then reached out to move them.

"Don't- here, use my knife," MacCready said. He yanked his boot knife out of its sheath and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said. She used it to carefully push the glass out of the way and onto the floor. He could see bits of color in the pile - red, green, gold and silver.

The next layer was crumbling green paper, and MacCready shook his head. "There's nothing in here worth taking," he said. "Come on, boss."

Charlotte frowned slightly, then moved the paper away.

Glittering silver plastic, ribbons of it, all in a string that coiled like a flayed snake in the box.

Charlotte caught a loop of it with the knife and lifted it. She as nearly as surprised as Mac when the string held together and came up in a long rope.

"Garland!" she said. Her soft voice was full of pleasure at the revelation. She carefully grasped some pieces that were free of glass or paper and shook out her treasure. She looped it into a pile at her feet, then went back into the box to look for more.

Three lengths of garland were salvageable, enough to decorate a whole tree if you were careful. Diamond City celebrated every year, though Mac didn't quite see the point. He just sighed as Charlotte carefully shook out each strand, then coiled it up and tucked it in her bag. At the bottom of the box, among scattered broken ornaments, there was a long string of lights, all clear glass with weird spiky plastic guards protecting the bulbs. This also seemed to delight Charlotte, and made Mac shake his head.

"Come on, boss, don't carry that junk," he said. "You're just going to stab yourself on those things every time you reach into the bag."

"I'll be careful," she said.

"What do you need that for, anyway?"

"It's not for me, exactly." She reached into the box one last time and pulled out a single, unbroken ornament - a star made from some paper plates. She shook it off, then put it carefully in her bag. "Well, it is, but… I thought it might be nice if I could… share what it was like. Before."

He thought about Duncan. He'd nearly told Charlotte about Duncan a dozen times, but never went through with it. Not that he thought she wouldn't help, but he didn't want to risk it, somehow. Wasn't he supposed to be helping _her_? She'd already taken out every Gunner that ever knew his name. Wasn't that enough? Wasn't it enough that she paid him to be here, that she gave a shit about him?

_Duncan would love this._

"MacCready?"

He looked up. "Yeah, boss?"

"Something on your mind?" She tilted her head, just a little.

_Well, fuck._

"Yeah, actually," he said.

* * *

Charlotte was so tired that her head kept nodding forward, bobbing as if her neck muscles couldn't bring themselves to hold it up. She didn't even notice when MacCready changed their direction, barely paying attention to the road beneath their feet.

It took another half hour of walking before she seemed to take stock of the landmarks.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Jamaica Plain," he said. "You're going to sleep."

"But I never built anything there," she said. "There's just that old house, and there aren't beds yet."

"We'll figure something out," he said.

Caretaker met them near the safe house, wringing his hands nervously. "The package moved on," he said. "Is everything okay?"

"Sure, buddy," MacCready said. "It's fine. Talk to her in the morning."

"Good work," Charlotte said. "If you need anything-"

"Ask someone else," MacCready said. He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the house.

"Rude," she chided lightly.

"Ask me if I give a crap," he said.

"Do you?"

"No."

He shoved the broken door open and looked around.

Charlotte tended to gut a place when she moved in, but fortunately she had left a few things in place here - no beds, but there was a rug and a busted red sofa.

Good enough.

He led her over to the couch and sat, pulling her down next to him.

She sighed, and the sound seemed to come from her bones. She yawned expansively, then leaned over against him.

"Don't get too comfortable," he warned. "I'm not staying."

Her head tipped over and rested against his shoulder. She shifted again, nestling further into the couch.

"Charlie Jack."

She murmured something utterly unintelligible, then closed her eyes.

MacCready sighed. Really?

"Ten minutes," he said, "and then I'm getting up. One of us has to keep watch."

"Mmm," she agreed.

She was asleep barely a minute later, leaning heavy against him. Five minutes passed, then ten, and he had to admit it - he wasn't moving. He lifted his arm up to stretch it and she burrowed in closer almost instantly, curling into him, throwing one leg over his. For a moment, he froze up - then pulled her closer, tucking her under his arm. He slumped a little, letting the weight of her body against his lull him into a doze. Maybe… just a bit longer.

He woke up with his whole body at awkward angles, and for a moment, couldn't figure out why. MacCready opened his eyes, and froze. He was stretched out on the red couch, and laying half on top of him was Charlie, contentedly sleeping in a patch of morning sun. She had her arm thrown over him, and one leg, impossible to shift without waking her.

And worst, it felt _good_ , felt right to be there. Peaceful. Like he'd never stolen anything better in his life than those few hours of sleep with her wrapped around him like he was what she wanted.

_Shit._

She shifted, then settled again, and he considered whether this was some kind of karmic reward for his recent efforts at being a better man, or some kind of punishment for his failures at the same. When she opened her eyes and looked up at him, he was sure, vividly sure, that it was the latter.

And then she smiled.

"Morning," she said, quiet, as if dawn could hear her.

"Hey," he said.

"Thanks for staying," she said. "I always feel safer when you're here."

"No problem," he said. "I like to stay close." _Why did you say that, you-_

"Good."

* * *

She was sitting next to him, nearly brushing his arm every time she reached for her rum and Nuka cola. Soft. Tidy. She smelled _good,_ like mutfruit at peak season - lush, sweet, almost alcoholic. It was distracting, and it made him uncomfortable in his skin.

His fingers twitched around his beer bottle. He didn't like noticing. Didn't want to notice.

_She's your boss._

A click across the room signalled a new song on the jukebox. Deacon grinned and leaned toward Charlotte.

"Hey, doll," Deacon said. "What say you and I cut a rug?"

MacCready watched Charlotte tip her head, watched her glossy black ponytail slip over her shoulder. Evaluating.

"You dance? You don't even like to _hug_ ," Charlotte said.

"Dancing isn't as touchy-feely as hugging," he said. He stood up. "Come on, all you have to do is follow my lead. I bet you could do it."

Charlotte set down her glass. She unclipped her Pip-boy, then slipped her scarf off and wrapped it around the valuable bit of tech.

She cast her eyes quickly at MacCready, then set the Pip-boy in front of him.

"I can probably manage that much," she said.

MacCready's instincts started to twitch. That hadn't been a "watch my stuff, please" look. That was dangerously close to a "watch this" look, the sort she gave him before pulling off a headshot that left him breathless.

He hid his suspicion behind another swallow of Gwinnett Stout. Deacon had run with Charlotte for months before MacCready had even met her. If the man from the Railroad didn't know her tells by now, Mac wasn't going to clue him in.

Charlotte took Deacon's hand and let him lead her onto the bit of floor that the staff had left empty.

Dancing, as MacCready saw it, was your typical pre-war time-waster. He watched them from under the brim of his hat, allowing the shadow to hide the roll of his eyes as Deacon helpfully coached Charlotte into following his lead.

They moved smoothly across the floor, with Charlotte's left hand resting lightly on Deacon's shoulder and her right hand held in his. They were talking - joking around, from what MacCready could tell.

A harsh laugh cut across the room. A couple of Hancock's personal guard had shown up - a sign that Hancock would be there soon. The taller of the two was a ghoul in a patched grey suit, and he grinned at the pair on the floor.

"Man," the ghoul said, "you got a fine sports car and you're driving it like a truck."

Deacon and Charlotte stopped. Deacon stood behind her, one arm slung over her shoulder.

"Hey," Deacon said. "Nothing wrong with trucks."

"Fair enough," the ghoul said. "But maybe you'll let an old man cut in. I think I recognise you, sister."

"Oh?" Charlotte looked closer at the man, but just frowned slightly.

"You won't recognise me with this mug," the ghoul said. He extended his hand. "Dean Bennett," he said.

Charlotte's face lit up. "Dean!" she said. She ducked out from under Deacon and took Dean's hand. She covered it with her both hands, then pulled Dean over and hugged him.

He chuckled and hugged her back. "Brave girl, hugging a ghoul," he said. He pulled back, holding her upper arms in both hands and looking at her fondly. "You always were a peach, Charlotte. How'd you end up here with your face still on?"

"Vault-tec," Charlotte said, shrugging.

Dean nodded as if that were answer enough. "One for old times?" he asked. "Just before the boss gets here."

Charlotte smiled. "You got it."

She looked back at Deacon, who gave her a nod before grinning and heading back to the table to watch.

"This should be interesting," Deacon murmured to MacCready.

MacCready grunted and took another sip of his beer.

The song was easy and sedate, and their dancing seemed no more interesting than the dancing she'd done with Deacon. A little cleaner, perhaps. A little easier. She did seem happy, though, which MacCready could admit was nice.

The song ended, but swung into another song - and Hancock still wasn't here. Not that it seemed Dean would have noticed regardless; he and Charlotte swung easily into a faster dance, and this time it seemed more deliberately restrained. There was a tension, as if at any moment something might snap.

The song was unfamiliar, but clearly known to Charlie and Dean. They were maintaining the tension, some unspoken negotiation in small glances and movements-

Then Hancock walked in, and the song broke open.

Charlotte's feet flashed as she spun around, Dean leading her around in circles, mirroring her movements, her pounding feet on the floor. Dean released her and she danced backward, her expression openly flirtatious, daring.

Deacon leaned forward, fascinated.

Charlie stretched out her hands toward Dean, who caught them in a firm grip and pulled her toward him. She dropped, sliding across the floor between his legs in a dive. He swung a leg over and pulled her around again, swinging around and popping her back up to her feet. Her laugh was bright, almost giddy, and she fell against him, letting Dean half carry her a few steps before she jumped back in and matched him again.

Charlotte was light on her feet, face so alight with joy that it made every expression she'd made before seem like a shadow. MacCready was pinned in his chair, watching her skirt flare higher with every spin. Watching the flex of her thighs, the swing of her hips, the cut of her biceps as she helped Dean pull her over his back to land behind him with a thump. _Ohh, fuck. Oh no._

As she spun around she caught MacCready's eye and winked. His mouth went dry. _She's your boss, MacCready. Don't get any ideas._

_Too late._

* * *

He had never felt more filthy in his life.

The room in Vault 81 was pristine, the whitest, cleanest thing he'd ever seen. He didn't want to touch anything. Even standing on the floor made him want to learn to hover.

Charlotte didn't seem concerned. She dropped her overloaded backpack onto the polished floor without even a glance. A cloud of road dirt billowed up, then settled in a filthy halo.

"I'm going to shower," she said. She walked over and hit a button on the wall. A panel slid open, revealing yet another white, glossy room. Charlotte stepped inside, then hit another button.

The door slid shut again, leaving him alone in the oppressive whiteness of the Vault.

-

Charlotte shed her clothes so quickly that she nearly tripped on her own underpants and had to catch herself against the wall. Every layer she had on was soaked with rad filled water. She felt clammy and miserable, and she would be damned if she was putting any of that back on until it'd been through the wash.

She flicked on the water, adjusting it with hesitant fingers before climbing in and sighing.

Oh, thank god.

In her head, she did the math - they had a half hour of water before the timer shut off the shower for the day, which meant in the sake of fairness she should take fifteen minutes, tops. She grabbed the soap and one of the clean rags, scrubbing every inch of skin that she could reach.

_Too bad we can't just share the shower_ , she thought. MacCready could scrub her back for her, and they'd both get the full half hour of warm water.

Her hands slowed at her task for a moment.

She shook her head.

_No._

-

"MacCready?"

He'd turned his back to the door, but he hadn't even set down his pack. His legs ached, but fuck, he felt so damn awkward here.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Your turn."

He turned toward the door.

_Fuck_. It was like a punch in the gut, seeing here there, warm and damp, wrapped in a towel, hair curling around her face and catching the light. She stepped out to the side and gestured toward the door.

"Hurry," she said. "Water won't stay on for long. The showers are all on a timer."

He thought about arguing, protesting, claiming he was fine, he didn't need a shower, but being surrounded by all this clean - well, it got to him, and more important, he needed out of this room before his brain melted out his ears. He rushed for the door, trying not to look too much at her as he passed.

He shut the door behind him, then stripped as quickly as he could. He tossed his clothes onto hers, then locked himself into the safety of the shower stall.

The water was clean, warm, and it felt so damn good that he let out a groan that shook his bones. He grabbed the rag and the soap and scrubbed himself until he was afraid he wouldn't have skin left.

He washed his hair twice, and if he was honest, he was just enjoying the feel of the water when the timer finally cut off his supply. He opened the doors and grabbed the last towel, wrapping it around his waist and tucking it tight. His clothes were missing, as were Charlotte's. She must have taken them - how had he not noticed?

He lingered longer in the steam. It felt good to breathe in here, he had to give the creepy Vault credit. He wasted time brushing his teeth, shaving, finger combing his hair and squinting at his face.

_Weaselly looking little fucker._ _No wonder people look at us weird when we roll up. Pint size princess and me, the shifty mercenary._

He shook his head. No point in staying in here all night. _Gotta find my clothes_.

He walked out, holding tight to the towel around his waist.

"Better, huh?" Charlotte asked. She didn't look up, faced away from the bathroom door, curled up on the bed with a pile of comic books in front of her. She hadn't dressed, despite having a pile of clean Vault suits right next to her. She knew some kind of magic knot to make her towel stay up, though.

He stepped a bit closer. If he could grab one of the suits-

Wait.

"Is that Grognak number 4?" MacCready asked.

"Uh huh," she said, turning a page.

He climbed up on the bed next to her, devouring the page with his eyes. Fuck, it was in good condition. The copy in Little Lamplight had been missing pages 5 and 15.

Charlotte moved her hands so he could see the whole page. "Nudge me when you're done," she said.

"Done?"

"Reading these pages."

"Right."

He sank into the familiar story, and nudged her shoulder with his when he reached the end of the second page.

She turned the page, and they both leaned in to read.

He forgot to even ask where his clothes had gone. They read through three comics, all with every single page intact. He was distracted by the story, but more than that, by the feel of her skin against his, by her stifled chuckles and the way she drew her whole lower lip up between her teeth to hide when she wanted to smile. He shouldn't be noticing, but he couldn't help it.

They'd used the same soap, but it smelled better on her.

"Hey, MacCready. You ever gonna finish this page?" she asked.

She looked over. Their eyes locked, and he felt like surely she could read his mind, would know the direction his mind had wandered. Her eyes seemed to see too much. Gray, but greenish, pale except for this fine dark rim around the edge. Like a distant rad storm.

"Sorry," he said. "I was thinking."

"No problem," Charlotte said. She turned back as if nothing had happened. And nothing _had_ , he reminded himself.

She turned the page.

* * *

A sweet smell hit his senses as MacCready gradually woke. He could hear something out behind the house - Charlotte, half humming, half singing some song he didn't recognise.

"I know just what to say, I answer right away. There's just one thing I've been wishing for-"

A stream of low cursing cut off the line.

MacCready sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He walked as silently as he could to the door and looked out.

Charlotte was standing in front of the chem station, babysitting a pot suspended above a bunsen burner. Her fingers were stained deep purple, along with parts of her lips. Purple fingerprints marked an empty Nuka Cherry bottle next to a stained cutting board.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She looked up.

"The soap that's left over from before the war is hard and brittle, so every few weeks I melt some down with some mutfruit and remold it," she said. She looked down at her hands and frowned. "I'm usually much tidier about it."

"Why put mutfruit in _soap_?" MacCready asked.

"Mutfruit juice is kind of oily," Charlotte said. "Soap is mostly oil anyway."

"Huh." MacCready leaned his shoulder against the door jamb.

"It's almost done," she said, peering back into the pot. "It just needs to melt into a relatively uniform consistency."

"Then what?" MacCready asked.

"Mmm? Then I pour this stuff into that," she said, pointing to a bread pan lined in paper.

"Then it sets," he guessed.

"Exactly," she said. She looked up and smiled at him.

"You're kinda a mess," he said, gesturing toward her hands.

She made a face. "I ran out of gloves," she said. "They're so brittle anymore. It comes off with enough scrubbing, anyway."

"Got it on your face, too," he said.

"Damn it," she murmured. She walked over to him. "Where, can you show me?"

He reached over and slid his thumb over her lower lip. Her breath hitched, then caught as she looked up at him with those big radstorm eyes.

"Should probably finish that, huh?" He gestured toward the pot over the burner.

Charlotte looked at it as if she'd forgotten what she was doing, then jolted into action. "Of course," she said. "Right."

She walked back over and gave the mixture a final stir, then turned off the burner and poured the contents of the pot into the pan. She tapped the pan on the table, then set it aside, shaking her fingers. "Hot," she mumbled.

"Don't hurt yourself, Charlie," MacCready said. He walked over and took her hands, looking at her fingers. "Haven't you swiped any pot holders yet?"

"Not lately," she said. "I thought there'd be some here, but I guess someone else took them."

"Probably Paige," MacCready said. "She's a world class hoarder."

"Only of pristine things," Charlie said.

"And pre-war food."

"And liquor."

"And chems."

Charlie laughed. "Okay, so she hoards things." She shook her head. "But she had it rough before the war. I didn't know how rough, before, but…" She sighed. "It doesn't surprise me that she stockpiles now."

"At least we always know who to go to for more supplies," MacCready said.

"She's where I get all my soap for this," Charlotte said. "Well, it'll be setting for a while. Should we go on a wander?"

"Sure thing, Buttercake."

* * *

"Stop fidgeting," Charlotte said, squinting in irritation at the back of MacCready's head.

"Stop fussing," he retorted. "It's no big deal, Charlie Jack."

"I don't want you to get an infection," she said. "You wouldn't let me stim it."

"We don't need to waste a stimpack on a _scrape_ ," he grumbled.

She soaked the clean rag with purified water and carefully patted it over the angry mark that took over most of his lower back on the right side. He hissed in a breath. _Yeah_ , she thought, _see? Just a scrape, my ass. That's a few layers of skin you've lost, buddy._

Charlotte kept cleaning, folding the rag to get a new surface. She wasn't going to let him court infection just to be stubborn.

"You were very brave," she said encouragingly.

He scoffed, but the effort did get him breathing again.

"I fell off a porch," he said. "Not exactly the stuff of comic book legend."

He'd burst out of the cabin in just his pants - and, inexplicably, his _hat_. He'd picked off the entire group of ferals in the time it took her to register what he was doing, and then he'd promptly slipped on a soft bit of wood and fell off the edge of the porch.

"You killed all those ferals before that," Charlotte said in a mollifying sort of way.

"How did you not notice them coming?" he asked. "I heard them and I was dead asleep."

Charlotte patted the scrape dry and blew gently on it. He hissed in a breath through his teeth.

"I did hear them," she said. "I was hoping they would just keep moving. Sometimes they just pass by, and I don't need to waste bullets on them."

"Waste the damn bullets," he said. He turned to look at her over his shoulder. "Seriously, Charlie Jack. Don't risk it. Ever."

"Okay," she said. "I'll just take them out next time."

He had an odd expression, almost too serious. After a moment, he wrinkled his nose. "Maybe don't tell Hancock about this one. Or Piper, geez."

Charlotte grinned. "What, you don't want all of the Commonwealth hearing about your half-naked rescue mission?"

"No, that bit is fine," he said. "Just skip the part where I fell off the porch and you spent ten minutes feeling me up."

"Feeling you up? Ohhh, no. That would be entirely different," Charlotte said. "What kind of weird courting rituals do you have these days that involve cleaning bits of rotting wood out of open wounds?"

"Is it really that bad?" he asked.

"Your grasp of courting, or the scrape?"

"The _scrape_."

"Yes. And even though you didn't ask, also yes."

MacCready rolled his eyes.

"Thanks for cleaning it, then," he said.

"You're welcome."

* * *

_"_ _I don't trust them," she told him, her voice tight._

_"Then why are we giving them this teleporter thing, boss?" he asked._

_"If it blows up, I want it on their land," she said. "And it makes them think I'm siding with them."_

_MacCready scowled. "This is some mercenary sh- crap, boss."_

_Charlotte sighed. "I know," she'd said._

Three giant generators. Four huge pieces of machinery that he couldn't begin to understand. A crack of ozone that made his skin itch.

MacCready stood back and watched as Charlotte talked to the douchebag in the bomber jacket - listened and grumbled under his breath at the party line answers she gave. The Brotherhood had made him twitchy in the Capital Wasteland, but here? They were nuts.

Charlotte walked over and conferred with the woman in the power armor. More party line answers, more lying through her perfect teeth. Charlie Jack was the best liar he'd ever met, but at this point, he had her pegged. He could read it in the lowering of her lashes, in the mechanical twitch of her smile.

Finally, Charlotte nodded, then walked over to MacCready. She stood close, nearly touching him.

She handed him her sniper rifle.

_"Polishing that thing again, boss? How often you think you need to oil it?"_

_"Can't be too careful. It's worth more than I paid for you."_

_"Lots of things are. I was a bargain."_

_"A bargain you refunded later, as I recall."_

_"It was only fair."_

_"Tell you what. You can have the gun when I die."_

_"Thanks, boss."_

"I don't know what happens after this," she said quietly, "but I have to know what happened to Sean. If he needs me-"

He saw her throat work as she swallowed back whatever she'd been about to say. His fingers tensed on the rifle.

"It will be fine. You'll find him, and then you'll be back, boss," he said. "Don't worry."

He saw her tense her smile, lock it in place. "Yeah," she said.

She took one step back. "Stay back where it's safe," she said. "In case something goes wrong."

_If it blows up, I want it to be on their land._

"Charlie-"

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. His voice died in his throat.

She drew herself up tall and walked over to the platform. She stepped up onto the plinth.

Maxson stood nearby, watching smugly as if he'd done any of the work to get them here. Ingram started pushing buttons on the console, yelling to Charlotte all the while.

Charlotte didn't answer. She had a thousand yard stare that was killing MacCready. Fuck, she looked scared. She never flinched, even when they were surrounded, but this thing had her pale and stiff.

Ingram gave a shout and started counting down.

"Five!"

Charlotte's hands gripped her pink skirt tightly. _Fuck safety._ MacCready walked over, caught her eye as he did.

"Four!"

He stood in front of her, locked eyes with her.

"Three!"

He gave her a little salute.

"Two!"

She nodded at him, a quick bob of her head, and mouthed the words "thank you".

_She had to be fine. This had to work. He didn't want to be alone again._

"One!"

Electricity sparked everywhere, flashing out in icy blue, blinding him for a moment. As he blinked away the flare, he heard Ingram shout.

"It worked!"

_Gone._ Fucking hell, she was gone. It felt like a bullet in his chest. He felt all the air leaving his lungs, but somehow he couldn't draw any in to replace it.

A heavy hand clapped him on the back, and he managed to gulp a breath. "Exemplary work!" Maxson said. "Soon, the Institute will know the might of-"

MacCready's hands started to shake with the urge to punch the man. "Do we know if she made it there," he interrupted, turning to Ingram, "or did this technical crap just vaporize her?"

"She made it," Ingram said. "All the readings are good."

"Great. I'll be here, then," MacCready said. He walked over to the one couch Charlotte had left in the work area.

"You can wait on the Pryd-" Maxson began.

"I will be _here,"_ MacCready said. He pulled his hat down.

He felt like he might throw up.

_What if she didn't come back?_

* * *

It's dark, and a storm is coming.

At his feet he can see water, dark, brackish, deep. He hates it. Water means cold, means discomfort and misery. He swears he can feel the rads seeping into his skin even from the shore.

His eyes catch on a swirl below the surface. Something beneath is moving, coming closer. He starts to back away. His hair feels like it's standing on end.

A hand, pale and coated in algae, thrusts out of the water. It reaches out, grabs his leg. He swallows a curse and recoils. He can't shake it loose, can't get away. Jesus, it's like fighting a deathclaw. He tries to pull back, but another hand comes up, grabs his leg again. They're holding on with a death grip as they pull, pull, pull. He has an odd feeling like they don't want to drag him under - they want to use him to climb out. Greyish skin, black nails, digging into his leg for purchase.

A head breaks the surface. There's a watery gasp, gurgling, horrible. Big pale eyes stare up at him. They're sunken in their sockets, the blood vessels burst, surrounded by dark bruising. The black eyes are matched by dark hollows in the cheeks, bruises on the temples, and more of the algae. Dark hair is stuck to the face and wrapped around the neck, too tight, covering it. Black lips, spotted with blood, open and close like a fish on the dock.

Lips he'd been watching for months as they slipped into soft smiles and subtle twists. No.

Charlotte. But wrong, so wrong.

She opens her mouth to speak, but the voice that he hears is Lucy's.

"You let me die." Charlotte's mouth doesn't move in sync with Lucy's voice. Charlotte is shaping different words, but he can't figure them out. Lucy's voice seizes his throat and burns.

"They tore me to pieces! Why didn't you save me?"

No.

He can see Charlotte's mouth moving again, but he still can't make out the words.

He grabs her and pulls her up out of the water, his hands slipping against her skin. She's covered in algae, in plants and slime, and the tendrils wrap around her neck, twining with her hair, pulling tight as she draws away from the water.

He starts tearing at the binds around her neck. His fingers are slick with blood and swamp water. She's losing color quickly now, and he feels like the sky is closing in on them.

Lucy's voice spills from Charlotte's mouth.

"You abandoned our son! Where is he?"

This time he can read Charlotte's lips. His name. Just his name. MacCready.

He tears the strands, finally freeing Charlotte's neck. When she gasps for breath, he can see something flexing inside the cuts into her greying skin. Deep cuts, but suddenly bloodless, as if she were made of plastic like Nick.

"Where is he?" Lucy's voice demands. "What have you done with him?"

Charlotte's eyes have gone glassy and white. She's staring at him without seeing. She's not bleeding. Her skin is sinking as her flesh pulls tight against her bones.

Wake up, she mouths. Wake up. Wake-

He sat bolt upright and gulped air. It burned in his lungs, making his chest hurt. His face was wet - shit, had he been crying? He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands until sparks dotted his vision.

He dropped his hands and blinked away the blurriness.

Fuck.

* * *

Watching Charlie dance was satisfying in a way MacCready didn't bother denying anymore. He liked watching her making clean, precise movements when she danced with the pre-war ghouls that knew the old dances. He liked watching her making it up as she danced with Hancock, or Deacon, or any of the other humans rattling around the Third Rail. She somehow managed to make every partner look good.

Mac had never danced with her. He wasn't exactly eager to make himself look like an idiot in front of everyone. Hell, he didn't want to look like an idiot in front of _her_. She could make anyone look good, but there had to be limits to that trick. He strongly suspected he was beyond that line.

She spun around, flaring her skirt out around her knees, berry-stained lips curled into an easy smile. Dean reeled her back in, pulling her close. She'd known the ghoul before the war. They'd gone dancing together then, too. Charlie and her husband, Dean and his girlfriends, taking to the floor every Friday night.

As the song ended, Charlie turned unerringly back to the table she shared with MacCready, Deacon, and Hancock. She didn't even pretend to head for her own seat - which held her Pip-Boy, a switchblade, and a .44 - and instead perched herself lightly on MacCready's knee. She reached over and grabbed his bottle of Gwinnett Pale, then pouted at the weight.

"Empty," she said sadly.

"Sorry, didn't save _my beer_ for you, Buttercake," he said.

"Hmph," she said. She stood up, stretching over further to grab her own warm bottle of Nuka Cherry before depositing herself on his leg again. Six months ago, he'd have complained about that, but at this point he just set a hand against her lower back to help her balance.

Charlotte shuffled closer to him, sliding her arm across his shoulders and crossing her legs delicately. She leaned into him with a pleased little sigh.

Then reached over and plucked his flask out of his inside pocket.

"Hey!" MacCready protested. "Using me as a chair isn't enough, now you gotta take my stuff?"

Charlotte unscrewed the top of the flask, then poured a healthy amount of his liquor into her bottle of soda.

"You like it when I steal things," she said. "You couldn't stop smiling when we cleared that weapons cache."

She screwed the top on the flask, then tucked it back in his pocket with a satisfied little pat.

"Yeah, well, that's other people's stuff," he said.

She swirled her bottle around, then took a drink. She made a little face, then shrugged.

A few more sips, and she set the bottle back on the table. She angled herself around to better face MacCready.

"So I shouldn't steal, say, your hat," Charlotte said. She reached out and lifted it off his head, dropping it atop hers and tugging it into place atop her pinned up curls.

"Hey!"

He grabbed it back, settling it on his head again with a scowl. "No," he said. "You shouldn't."

"Your cigarettes?" she asked, quickly sliding a pack she'd given him out of his duster pocket.

" _Charlie._ "

She tossed the pack to Hancock, flipping it easily out of MacCready's reach. Hancock chuckled, then tapped a cigarette out and stuck it between his lips.

"You're not helping," MacCready grumbled, casting a sidelong look at the mayor.

Hancock lit the cigarette and took a healthy drag. "Not helping _you_ , no," Hancock said, blowing out smoke with a smirk.

Charlotte turned and made another grab for his hat. He tipped his head back, letting it fall on the ground behind the chair. He smirked at her when she huffed indignantly.

"Fine," she said. "What about…"

She paused.

"You're in the way of my other pockets," he said, a smug tone creeping into his voice. "Good luck stealing anything else."

"Okay then," she said. She reached up and caught his face in her hands.

"What are y-"

Charlie leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his mouth, catching him mid-"ou". It was quick - a soft press of her lips against his and then gone, just enough to short his brain and leave him blinking and confused.

Charlie leaned away and smiled triumphantly, setting her hands on his shoulders.

"Stole that then," she said.

The words spilled out before he could think about them. "Give it back," he said.

Charlotte chuckled, that way she had that was more breath than sound. Her nose wrinkled up with a pleased little victorious grin.

MacCready put both hands on her waist and tugged her closer. He saw her lips part in surprise.

"Please," he said, his voice quiet.

Something changed in the air between them, a weight settling around them, shutting the others at the table out. He held his breath as she drew closer. The anticipation was sharp and almost painful when she paused, hovering ever so slightly away, her breath chasing over his lips.

"Okay," she breathed.

Her mouth was soft when it covered his, slow this time, deliberate. He was afraid to move, afraid this was a fever dream and that he was actually dying in the wastes somewhere. No way was Charlie Jack sitting on his lap in the back room of the Third Rail and kissing him. No _way_. He'd thought about this too much, wanted it too long for it to be real.

She pulled back, slowly again. At the first loss of contact something in him cried out in protest and snapped him from his paralysis _._ He leaned up, reconnecting them, kissing her back.

He was vaguely aware of the sound of Hancock laughing and saying something, but it was drowned out by the slide of Charlie's lips, the feel of her body as she curled against him and reached up to thread her fingers through his hair. It was gone in the taste of Nuka Cherry and moonshine, in the soft, approving sound she made when he gripped her waist harder and slid his thumbs under the edge of her jacket.

He felt dizzy.

The fog slightly lifted as Charlie pulled back, drawing in a ragged breath that matched his own.

"We square?" she asked quietly.

He took in her blown pupils, her swollen mouth, _fuck_ , the way she was looking at him.

He shook his head. "Not even close," he said.

She smiled.

"Good."

* * *

Charlotte held loosely onto her glass of Nuka Cherry and vodka, listening to Hancock and MacCready one-up each other with stories about life in the wastes. Hancock was spooling out a tale about radroaches that Charlotte dearly hoped was mostly a lie when a bump at her elbow drew her attention to a man that had sidled up to the bar next to her.

He was a drifter, one she'd seen before, but had never spoken with. He leaned closer and half-whispered.

"Hey, mama, why you hangin' out with MacCready when you could have anybody in the place?"

Charlotte tensed. She took a last swallow of her drink and turned away, back toward the boys. The drifter nudged her again, more insistently.

"You're either fuckin' MacCready or you want to be, and I don't get it. At least I got all my teeth. You could do better," the drifter insisted.

Charlotte set her glass down on the bar, loudly. Whitechapel Charlie turned an eye stalk toward her. She made very brief eye contact with the robot before looking over at the drifter, her face gone dark with anger.

"You can take that opinion somewhere else," she said.

"Aw, come on, mama, don't be unkind," the drifter said. He reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging as if trying to tow her away from the sniper at her right. "You know I'm right."

Hancock and MacCready had fallen quiet, both staring the man down with daggers in their eyes.

"He botherin' you, sister?" Hancock asked.

"Nah, nah," the drifter said. "Would I do that, mayor? Just makin' a friendly observation." He smiled, a little too big.

Charlotte yanked her arm away and shoved herself slightly closer to MacCready.

"Aw, don't be that way," the drifter said. He leaned in, and this time was loud enough for MacCready to hear when he said, "Leave the snaggletooth kid and come hang out with a real man."

MacCready bristled, face turning red. "Hey, screw you," he said.

The drifter rolled his eyes. Charlotte straightened in her seat, and at a nearby table, Cait and Deacon turned to look.

"Fuck off," Charlotte said, her voice clipped.

"What? It's just facts! He's a skinny little loudmouth with bad teeth!" the drifter said. He grinned, gaining steam with the attention. "Probably smells like rot and filth. You're too pretty for the likes of him."

MacCready shoved back away from the bar.

"I won't tell you again," Charlotte said, turning to fully face the drifter. He leaned back to smile at her.

"You know I'm right," he said. "And so does he."

"Remember what I taught you," Cait called.

Charlotte nodded once.

Hancock looked over at Cait. Cait was grinning in an unsettling way.

"What did you teach-"

Hancock's question was cut off by the answer. Charlotte reeled back, then punched the man solidly in the neck.

The drifter fell off the bar stool, falling into the man next to him. The second man cursed and shoved the drifter off onto the floor. The drifter clutched his throat and gasped for air.

Ham walked over and grabbed the drifter by the back of the neck, lifting him up off the floor.

"What do you want me to do with him, boss?" Ham asked.

"Give him a stim and toss him out," Hancock said. "He'll crawl back to bed eventually."

Ham dragged the man away.

Cait held up her drink. "Good job, doll. Thumb out and down, knuckles first, hand, wrist, and arm in a line, just like I said."

Charlotte shook out her hand and frowned. She turned to look at MacCready.

He was standing behind her, looking over toward the door.

Charlotte extended a leg over and nudged MacCready. He jerked his attention back to her.

"Thanks for defending my honor, boss," he said.

Charlotte smiled.

"Any time," she said.

* * *

Across the collapsing theatre, Charlotte was standing in front of the jukebox, shifting back and forth as if repressing the urge to dance. Most of the lights were dead, but the sound still worked, cranking out a familiar rendition of "Sixty Minute Man". MacCready rounded the corner from his sweep, pausing when he saw her.

Every time they found a jukebox, she checked to see if it worked. Whether it did or not, she always wanted to crack it open and steal the holotapes inside. She was hungry for new music - though for her, he supposed, it wasn't new. It was familiar.

The song ended, and MacCready walked closer, being sure to make noise. Best warn her he was here- after that nest of ferals they'd just cleared, he didn't want her thinking he was a straggler. She turned at the first sound, then visibly relaxed at the sight of him.

A new song started, and it was utterly unfamiliar. MacCready frowned.

"Hey, Buttercake, what's that?" he called.

She turned, and started walking toward him. She didn't like to yell.

MacCready didn't want to notice the curve of her hip, the fluidity of the movement, but fuck - he did. She seemed to move in time with the music, and his mouth went dry.

_I put a spell on you_

_because you're mine_

MacCready swallowed, then grabbed for his cigarettes.

"Screamin' Jay Hawkins," Charlotte said as she drew closer. "I'm definitely breaking this thing open and stealing the tape before we go."

_I ain't lyin'_

_yeeeeeeeah_

"Weird," he said, more to have something to say than anything. Charlotte just smiled.

-

She was in hold, being swirled around the broken dance floor by one of Hancock's men - Dean, probably - her gold heels clicking on the floor in time with her sharp movements

_I can't stand no runnin' around_

_I can't stand no put me down_

_I put a spell on you_

_because you're mine_

She was so sharp here, so smooth and practiced. She looked like a painting of Pre-War propaganda. Here, boys, is what we're fighting for in Anchorage. Red lips, black liner, perfect victory rolls.

Though she was tidy, the dance was not. MacCready's fingers tensed around his Gwinnett. Her hips were doing that _thing_ again, the sinuous slide that melted his thoughts.

_stop the things you do_

_I ain't lyin'_

_oh_

-

It was dark in the cottage, but there was light from the jukebox behind him and the Pip-Boy on the kitchen table. He had turned his chair away from the table to face the room, and now that their friends had gone home, it was just him and Charlie.

Charlie, who locked the door and turned. She walked slowly toward him, gaze never wavering, a soft smile hinting at her lips. She perched herself on his knee, leaning close. She swept his hat off and set it on the table.

The jukebox spun out the last song the caps had bought.

_Oh_

_oh_

_I love you_

_I love you_

_I love you anyhow_

His hand on her knee, sliding up her thigh, smooth skin, warm under the hem of her skirt.

Her hand on his chest, her lips near his ear, breath hitching at the progress of his fingers.

_I put a spell on you_

_because you're mine_

_Oh, you're mine_

* * *


	3. Paige and Deacon

Her mouth was going to be the death of him, he just knew it.

It wasn't the look of it - though it was a goddamn thing of beauty. The generous width of it, the way her narrow lips were quick to form the staccato pattern of her speech, that damned dimple that showed up on the left side, where all her expressions pulled to avoid the scar that cut the right side of her face - it was perfect.

It wasn't simply the sound of her voice, either, though that was undeniably satisfying as well. It had such _variety_ to it. She didn't talk very often, but she made up for that with a stream of growls, snarls, hums, and clicks. Once, one beautiful time, he'd heard what immediately became his favorite sound - a pleased little purr she'd made when she'd finally managed to connect the conduit and power up a water pump at Hangman's Alley.

But that was a distraction again, because his favorite thing - the thing that would kill him one day - were the _words_.

When she did speak - when she graced him with those _words_ \- her observations were sharp, incisive things, a scalpel to his admitted bullshit. It wasn't kind or cruel, though he accused her of the latter fairly often. It simply _exposed_.

Charlotte, bless every bit of her, was polished. Refined. Generous. A finely crafted and honed blade.

Paige was a raw, jagged bit of scrap metal someone had wrapped a sock around to make a shiv.

Even he couldn't have predicted how appealing that would be.

He knew that if he told Charlotte about his past, she would be understanding. Forgiving. She couldn't help it - she was a big open heart walking the wasteland, and she'd forgiven worse than him before. And yeah, maybe that was appealing. Maybe he wanted to tell her, just to get that rush.

Deacon looked over at Paige through his sunglasses.

He had no idea what she would think. What she might do. If she would hate him the way he deserved.

And that… that made him want to tell her all the more.

* * *

The scar down Paige's face was stark in the flickering firelight, a deep gouge marked by divots from unskilled stitching. It was faded enough that Deacon knew it wasn't a new acquisition, and that only made the depth and severity of it more interesting. Didn't they have decent medical care before the war? Hospitals used to do _something_ other than house scrap and mutants.

No matter how much he seeded the conversation, though, she never explained it. She never explained _anything_ , which was starting to drive him a little crazy. She knew all the context behind everything he'd been seeing his whole life, but did she talk about it? No.

She didn't talk much at all, full stop, and if he didn't fill the space with banter it would remain empty pretty much forever. He was doing an experiment around that right now. He'd stopped talking three hours ago, and she didn't even seem to notice. She'd been silent the entire time. She hadn't even yelled when that supermutant had surprised them in the abandoned parking garage! Not that _he_ had, mind you. Nope.

Okay, yeah, maybe he had, but _that didn't count_.

Three hours and ten minutes of quiet now. How did she do it? He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.

She sat there, probably too close to the fire, a roll of small tools spread out in front of her while she took a desk fan to pieces. She was careful with the electrical pieces of it, heating a long screwdriver in the fire and melting the connections to free the wires and other little pieces he couldn't begin to identify. It was the most delicate he'd ever seen her be with anything.

Maybe it was the silence getting to him, but he found the skill kind of sexy.

Shit, he was going to have to cave. A blood-stained woman destroying a desk fan should probably not be enough to make you want to sneak off for some alone time. He was clearly losing it.

Three hours, fifteen minutes.

Maybe he could make it to thirty three minutes. That would look cooler in his notes.

She looked up at him, sharp gaze levelling him a moment. He held his breath in hopeful anticipation.

"There's a feral coming up behind you," she said.

He beamed. Progress!

* * *

"You know," Deacon tried, "I got one of my face swaps once, and was a girl for a few months. Caused a bit of a stir back at HQ."

Paige pulled back from her scope and looked over at him.

"What, makeup was too complicated for you?" she asked.

"I didn't have a good face for makeup at the time," he said.

"Or maybe you're just shit at it," Paige said, looking back down her scope again.

"Hey, I'm _great_ at makeup," Deacon said.

"Sure."

"No, I was. Even you would have been impressed."

" _Even_ me?" Paige shot him a look. "Do I have very high standards?"

"You told me once that I have 'the face of a stillborn brahmin calf'," Deacon reminded her.

"I said you were _'making_ a face _like_ a stunned brahmin calf'," Paige said.

"Either way, it wasn't a compliment."

"There's a big difference," Paige said. "And if it's compliments you want, start being more impressive."

* * *

The storm outside was a rager, bringing not just rads but a barrage of hard rain and occasional cracks of thunder that rattled the few unbroken windows. Paige laid on the filthy mattress, one bent arm covering her eyes as she resisted the urge to try and stim away her headache.

"Hey, Wanderer," Deacon said. "Check this out."

Paige didn't move. "What is it?" she asked.

"A quiz from back in your time," he said. She heard him wave some papers. "Hey, how about I ask you the questions? Might help pass the time."

He sounded just this side of too-casual. Paige sighed.

"Go ahead," she said.

Deacon cleared his throat. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Wanderer," Paige said, smirking.

"Your real name," Deacon clarified.

"You know my real name, Deacon," Paige said.

"Come on, boss, humour me."

She rolled her eyes behind closed lids. "Paige Peretti."

"No middle name?" Deacon asked.

"Paige _is_ my middle name," Paige said.

"What?" She heard Deacon lean forward on the creaky wooden desk chair.

"Next question, Deeks."

"Fine. Do you know why you were called that?"

Paige frowned. "I don't."

"Do you know why your first name was whatever it was?"

"I hope you don't think you're being sneaky."

"No, you don't have to tell me the name, just, do you know why they picked it?"

"Why did you pick 'Deacon'?"

"How do you know I did?"

"What, you let someone else pick your code name?"

"Why would that be so strange? You let Des pick yours."

"You are far too controlling to give someone that kind of power over your persona."

"I'm hurt, boss. You wound me."

Paige exhaled a sharp laugh.

"I don't know," he said. "I liked how it sounded. Deacons had power, back in the day. I liked the association."

"My parents named me after a character in a story," Paige said. "But it's unusual, so they always used Paige. Safer that way."

"Vague, but I'll take it," Deacon said. He shifted to lean on the desk. "Oh, this is a good one. Are you single?" he asked. He dropped his voice lower. "Or taken?"

"Widowed," Paige said.

"That's not one of the listed options, boss."

"Too fucking bad. That's the answer you got."

Deacon chuckled. "Okay. Do you have any special abilities or powers?"

"I can pick a lock while blindfolded," Paige said. "Found that out last week."

"Why were you blindfolded?" Deacon asked.

"Mac asked if I could do it," Paige said. "Turns out I can. That counts as special, right?"

"What else can you do blindfolded?" Deacon asked.

"Is that meant to be innuendo, Deeks? Because if so, you're flagging. That's barely a pick up."

"You wound me."

"That's apparently one of my other special abilities, since that's twice in that last five minutes."

"What's your eye color?"

"My- you know what color my eyes are."

"Maybe I don't. You're always wearing those tinted glasses."

"Says the man with sunglasses permanently soldered to his face."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Paige chuckled. "That's much better. Worse, but better."

"No, really."

She paused, then peeled her arm away and squinted at him. "Really," she said skeptically.

"Sure," he said. "Just this once. Sign of good faith."

Paige shoved herself up off the piled straw pillows. "You know what? I'll call your bluff. Come on over."

He hesitated, and saw her mouth pull into an "I knew it" sort of smirk. "Fine," he said. He set down the pages on the desk and walked over. Thunder rumbled outside as he reached the mattress. Paige was looking up at him with a mix of skepticism and anticipation. He squatted down next to her.

"I'll let you do the honors," he said.

Paige leaned forward and reached for his glasses, then hesitated. "You sure?" she asked.

"Just do it already," he said, sudden anxiety making his voice sharp.

She reached out with both hands and delicately lifted the sunglasses from his face. He closed his eyes against the light, then opened them again. Paige was leaned closer than she had been, her pale grey eyes gentler, more kind than he'd expected.

"Damn," she said. "Blue, huh? I didn't think you'd go through with it."

He tilted his head to the side in a quick bob and smirked. "There you go. One of the big Deacon secrets."

"Two, actually," Paige said. She leaned slightly back, then reached over and slid a thumb over his eyebrow. "You're just as ginger as I am, mister."

"Hey, the eyebrows could be a dye job. You don't know," he said.

"Who has access to eyebrow dye in the fucking post nuclear wasteland?" Paige said. "Nah. I don't buy it."

"Fine, fine, you got two secrets out of me. Aren't I supposed to be the one asking the questions?" he asked, reaching for his sunglasses again. She handed them over and smirked.

"Well, get back to it, mister reporter."

He stood back up and fled to the relative safety of the desk chair. Paige folded her legs and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head resting on her hands. The rain picked up outside. Somewhere in the office building, the roof was starting to leak.

"Looks like we established the next question already," Deacon said, picking up the papers again and flicking them. "Your hair color is-"

"Ginger," Paige said. "Just like yours."

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. "Listen, sass master."

"Next question?"

"Any family?"

"Not anymore," Paige said. "Unless either of my parents were ghouled after the blasts."

"Right," Deacon said. "Where were they? We can always check."

"I don't know," Paige said. "Could have been anywhere. Doesn't matter, really. And before you ask, no. No siblings, no kids."

"Pets?"

"Tony had a goldfish," Paige said. "I don't figure it did as well as Codsworth after the bombs."

"Did it have a name?" Deacon's voice barely hid his amusement.

"Arturo," Paige said.

"Good name, boss."

"That was all Tony," Paige said, shaking her head.

"Back to you, then. Tell me about something you don't like."

"Something I don't like."

"That's the question."

Paige thought a moment. "Butcher Pete," she said.

"Ha!" Deacon shook his head. "I'll give you that one, boss. Anything else?"

"Sure. Radiation, raiders, the Children of Atom, deathclaws…"

"Everyone hates that stuff," Deacon said. "Come on, give me something good."

"Quiet."

"Hey, you said you'd answer-"

"That is the answer," Paige said. She looked at him seriously. "I don't like quiet."

"Huh." Deacon looked over the paper at her. "Really?"

"Why do you think I hang out with you all the time?" she asked.

"I was hoping it was because you can't resist my charm and good looks," he said.

"That too," she said tolerantly.

"Ouch."

"Three times, now."

"Should I mark that down under 'hobbies or activities you like doing'?"

"Is that the next question?"

"Yep."

"Sure, write that down," she said. She leaned back and gestured as if there were a marquee in front of her. "'Fucking with Deacon'."

"We're only one word away from a good time there," he said, waggling his eyebrows at her.

"Someone's confident," she said.

"I think I know the answer to the next one," Deacon said, "Ever _hurt anyone before_?"

Paige chuckled. "You're not really hurt, you big liar."

"I'm pretty confident you've also killed people before," he said.

"Is that really a question?" Paige leaned forward. "That can't be a real question."

"Sure is," he said. "Right here, between 'have you hurt anyone before' and 'what kind of animal are you'. Your magazines were weird, boss."

"What kind of _animal_? What the hell kind of question is that?"

"What, you don't have one in mind? I was thinking 'junkyard dog'," he said.

"Cold, Deacon."

"Nah, see, they're deadly and loyal," he said. "Just like you!"

"Is this because I said you might not be good in bed?"

"Is _that_ what you were insinuating?"

"Deeks, you are the embodiment of 'all talk, no action'."

"I'm just gonna write down 'always totally wrong about Deacon' under 'worst habits," he said, making a show of pretending to write down an answer on the page.

"What, you aren't going with 'hoarding'? After all that shit you give me for picking things up?"

"Good point. I'll mark that down, too."

"Jerk."

"So, do you look up to anyone?"

"Look up to… hmm."

Paige flopped back down onto the pile of pillows, listening the to rain pelting the roof.

"Charlotte," she said finally.

"So. Uh. Did you go to school? Everyone did, right? Compulsory."

"It was compulsory, but I didn't."

Deacon sat forward. "You didn't?"

"No. My parents taught me at home. All the important stuff - reading, writing, math, larceny."

"Heh." He flipped the page. "Next one is 'do you want to marry and have kids one day'."

"I already was married," Paige said.

"No kids, though," Deacon said.

"Nah. It wasn't like that. I mean, we were legally married, but we were just friends. We didn't even kiss at city hall. Just pretended for the judge."

"Why?"

"Seemed like she would have been disappointed if we hadn't," Paige said.

"No, boss. Why get married at all, if you weren't in love?"

Paige heard a note in his voice, as if this question were somehow important. As if marriage meant something to him. "He was drafted into the military," she said. "He'd get better pay and housing if he was married. We were friends, he knew he could trust me, and I wasn't going to say no to a bit of stability."

"Do you want to be married for real someday? Love, hearts, candy, loud sex in cheap hotel rooms, the lot."

Paige frowned and squeezed her arm tighter across her eyes. "A deathclaw will get me before I ever have to worry about it," she said. "What's the next question?"

"Next one's easy," Deacon said. "Do you have any fans? Yeeeep, you do. Answered."

"I don't have fans," Paige said, scoffing.

"Sure you do. The Minutemen and Preston practically have songs written in your honor," Deacon said. He chuckled, then added, "Besides, you know I'm your biggest fan, boss."

"Thanks, Deeks."

"So. What are you most afraid of?"

"Bees," Paige answered immediately.

"What?"

"Bees. The one damn time I was out of the city, a whole hive of ground bees swarmed up and chased me out of a playground. Got stung so many times that my eyes swelled shut."

Deacon paused, then nodded. "Forgot all your bugs were small. Let's see, next… what do you usually wear?"

"You see me all the time, Deacon."

"Okay, what did you usually wear before the big freeze?"

"Housewife camo. Makeup to hide the scar, dresses, stockings, heels, the lot. Unless I was at work, and then I had mechanic's overalls and boots."

"Gotta say, it's hard to imagine you in a dress, boss."

"They're not practical for murder, no matter what Charlotte says," Paige said.

"Let's see… do you love someone?"

"Do I- what?"

"Love someone."

Deacon watched her lift her arm up again and peer over at him. "Yes," she said.

"Any hints as to who? For the public, you know. They'll want to know."

"You're the charming liar," she said. "Make something up."

Deacon pretended to write again. "She… is… hopelessly… in… love… with.. a… certain… incredibly… handsome… Railroad… agent," he said.

"Who doesn't put out," Paige said, mimicking his tone, "and asks stupid questions about when I last pissed myself."

"When _did_ you last-"

"For _fucksake_ , Deacon."

"What? You brought it up!"

"I don't know. I was probably a toddler. _Jesus_. Are we done yet?"

"Mmm, nooooooope. Still raining," Deacon said. A rumble from above agreed with him. "Okay, okay, real question. Are you a fancy, high class lady?"

Paige laughed. "Are you kidding me? No. There isn't a class lower than I was."

"I don't know, boss. I think an argument could be made at this point that with your huge stash of goods, you might have more potential wealth than anyone else we know."

"Wealth isn't class," Paige said. "I'm pretty sure I could be as rich as fuck and still be lower class. Something about beating people to death for a living and having my entire family composed of criminals."

"Nah, no big deal these days. What if we called you… solidly middle class?"

Paige waved a hand. "Sure" she said. "Have it your way."

"How many friends would you say you have?"

"More than I expected to."

"What are your thoughts on… pie?"

"Is that a euphemism?"

"What would it be a euphemism for?" Deacon looked at her in sudden interest.

"Never mind. Uh. I think I had pie once at a military thing. It was a little soggy. Nothing to write home about," Paige said.

"Favorite drink?"

"Bourbon."

"Favorite place?"

"There was this deli in the city when I was a kid. I used to save up until I could afford… they made this thing, I can't remember what it was called, but there was bread and this shaved meat and cheese and some kind of something on it. Sort of tasted warm, but not spicy. The lady at the counter used to give me a cookie to take with me every time I bought the other thing. She let me use the tables in there when the shop wasn't busy. It was always warm and smelled good. Safe."

Deacon paused.

"Have you seen it since the bombs?" he asked. "We could always take it over. I bet we could make a killing with a nice deli."

"It's not here, it's in the - right. You don't know. I didn't grow up in Boston," she said. "It'd be a bit of a hike from here."

"Maybe someday, huh?"

"Yeah. You and me, Deeks. Maybe I'll get Sturges to help me fix up a car. We can make a proper road trip of it. Siphoning gas from here to the promised land," Paige said.

"Don't hit me now, the next questions aren't my fault," Deacon said.

"I'm bracing myself."

"Are you interested in someone?"

"Why, Deacon, haven't we already established that I'm hopelessly in love with you? We're going to run away together, after all."

"Now see, you said you weren't getting married again, and I'll have you know I'm an honorable man who doesn't just run off and live in sin."

"We can't live in sin unless we start sinning. I think you're safe."

"Think of my reputation, boss!"

"Fine, fine, we'll get married first," she said, waving a hand dismissively.

"What, no proper proposal? No flowers and cakes and courting?"

"Deacon," Paige said, "are you done with the questions yet? Rain's dying down."

"I'm just saying…"

Paige made a frustrated noise and covered her face again. "Why do I have to do the courting?" she asked.

"Because I'm bad at it, and called dibs on not having to do it," Deacon said.

"Couldn't we just skip to the part where we ruin our friendship with drunken sex instead of torturing it to death with magazine quizzes and marriage proposals?"

"Next question!" he said quickly. "Would you rather swim in the lake or the ocean?"

"Fucking hell, _neither_. Radiation! And do you know what lives in that water?"

"I'd rather not," Deacon said.

" _Exactly_. Besides, I don't know how to swim anyway," Paige said.

"You don't?"

"What, you think we had a fucking swimming pool? Jesus. We couldn't even afford memberships to the Y," Paige said. "Besides, that shit requires ID."

"What about this - camping, or staying indoors?"

"Are there indoor options anymore that aren't also camping?" Paige asked.

"I've seen the outside of your house," Deacon said. "I'm pretty sure whatever is inside counts as indoors now. You have walls, boss, and an entire roof."

"Yeah, I suppose. In that case, indoors," she said. She paused a moment. "You've only seen the _outside_ of my house?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah. You don't even have a door," Deacon said.

"Sure I do," she said. "It's just hidden. I assumed you'd have broken in by now, anyway."

"Nah. I thought about it, but I decided against it. You'll let me in when you want me in," he said. "Last three questions, Wanderer. Ready?"

"Hit me."

"What's your type?"

"Mouthy spies, apparently."

"Any fetishes?"

"Nope."

"Dominant or submissive?"

"Ha! Guess," Paige said.

"I bet you could get into either, if the cards were played right."

"Huh." Paige moved her arm again. "Not bad, Deeks. That finally it?"

"Yep," he said. "Still raining, though. Ready to give up and take a stim for your head?"

"You _fucker_ ," Paige grumbled. "You knew my head was miserable and you grilled me for an hour anyway!"

"I figured it'd either get bad enough to treat or it'd go away if you were distracted," he said. "Stim?"

He held one up and waved it.

"Ugh. I hate those things," Paige said.

Deacon raised his eyebrows and waved the stimpack again.

"Yes," Paige said reluctantly.

* * *


End file.
